Before Phantomhive Manor
by HumanyWumany
Summary: The experiences of the Phantomhive servants before and until Sebastian hired them. Based on His Butler, Hires. Please R&R :
1. Through Finny's Eyes

**Through Finny's Eyes**

Cold. My entire body is freezing cold. The impenetrable darkness is pressing in on me from all sides, slowly squeezing the life out of me with its icy tendrils. Soon it will have completely suffocated me. If I ever see the sun again I think I might be blinded by its beauty. What a foolish thing to think, Finny, you'll never see the light of day again. I have become an animal who lives in a tomb of shadow, wrapped in a shroud of frost beneath a wreath of blood. Everyday I'm dragged out of the cell that has become my home, yesterday's barely-formed scabs ripped off my heels as my bare feet are scraped along the floor of corridor after identical corridor.

I can tell when we near the room where I'm tortured daily for a reason I cannot and will not understand because I can hear the screams echoing around me even if my eyes can barely discern anything in the upside down dull dizziness of such a cold and dark world. Every day I will myself to be strong and brave as my parents taught me. Every day I fail. I struggle as they strap me to the wooden table, stained with blood and marked with needles. I try everything to make them stop; I make my whole body go rigid, I kick and punch them, I cry. Every day I scream for mercy until my throat tears.

"It's for your own good, young man," I'm always told by the one who tightens the straps to stop me hitting them or falling off the table during uncontrollable convulsions of agony, "One day this treatment will make you the strongest person in all the world!"

"Now quit wriggling you little bastard." Says the one who plunges the five inch needle into my flesh.

I scream.

The daily torture seems to last forever but in reality it can't go on for more than about three hours. From the moment the tip of the needle breaks the skin on either one of my shins, each so pitted and pockmarked already with needles that I'm surprised any unscarred sections can be found to scar the pain is unimaginable. My entire body trembles as the agonising fire courses through my veins and waves of nausea sweep over me. Sometimes I vomit but I never cease to scream and the treatment never stops .As the needle slowly sinks further into my body I feel the warm blood splatter my wildly thrashing legs. The agony makes my heart thud its racing march of terror so deafeningly in my ears that I can no longer hear my own cries for it all to be over.

Gradually my entire body is consumed by the pain until it's all I know. I must have been born into this unendurable inferno that makes me feel as if every pore of my body from the follicles of my hair right through to my toes is having an overlarge white hot poker forced into it and twisted. Red ebbs at the edges of my vision before flooding my eye sockets and usually I pass out into the welcoming abyss just after the end of the needle grazes my shinbone and what feels like an electric shook run through me, often causing my straining muscles to pop open the clamps binding me and my chattering teeth to fill my mouth with blood.

Every day I wake in the darkness of my cell, my legs still immovable and stuck to the floor with blood. Semi-congealed blood normally coats the bottom half of my face from the numerous nosebleeds the build-up of pressure and excruciating pain cause or the times my pain has been so acute that my body has bucked and spasemed out of control in protest and I've bitten my tongue or used to be a window here when I first arrived. There was light; and I could see the birds. Now, however, that window had been covered by black dust. All I do is lie on the floor and wait for the next day's treatment. There is nothing but the cold and the darkness and the pain. I am so empty and alone. I'm fifteen years old and this has been my life since I was ten. No birthdays, no Christmases, no school; only the cycle of pain and darkness. I would have given up long ago if it were not for the birds singing, the promise of an outside world only just out of reach.

One day I am strapped down to the table, already screaming in anticipation of the agony to come. As normal the needle plunges into my flesh only this time I do not feel the flames of pain. I'm so shocked I stop screaming. Instead I feel an overwhelming determination and exaltation. I easily break my bonds and break and smash my torturers into the walls. Dimly I realise this must have been what five years of excruciation were for. I am the strongest person in the world.

I don't care. I just want to get outside. No, I need to get outside. A desperation has filled my body, I feel I'll die if I don't finally see the sun again. I run, hardly feeling the rivulets of blood streaming down my legs, knocking out anyone who stands in my way. The corridors flash past me, each one seeming to glow with a brighter light than I can ever remember seeing. The raging need to escape and to breathe fresh air is so huge I don't even see who I'm flinging to the walls.

I'm forced to stop when the next person I run into doesn't fly out of my way. I look up and see a tall man in an immaculate black suit and tailcoat, his symmetrical face framed roughly by swooping layers of black hair. His eyes are a funny shade of brown, almost red and I can tell from looking into them that they are the eyes of an outcast, someone misunderstood, an unloved person. Someone like me.

"Aren't you hurt from me running into you?" I ask.

He sidesteps the question and offers me a job. He says he needs someone with my strength to protect his master, that he'll pay me good wages, give me food and lodgings and hardly even have to do any work. He's strange and I know one should never talk to strangers but he's speaking to be in a deep, soft, noble voice and his eyes are holding me captive. I instinctively know I'm the lesser being in this situation yet this person is treating me almost like an equal. I can't remember the last time that has happened. I open my mouth and for the first time in a few years something other than a scream comes out.

"I don't want any of that." I tell him, "I just want to go outside."

Sebastian, his name is, he's a butler and he leads me outside into a field. Everything is so bright and colourful. I'd forgotten anything this beautiful existed. The flowers are so delicate, the trees are so mighty; the sky is so blue and the sun is so bright it hurts my eyes. I stare into the cloudless bowl above me and see the birds wheeling and singing above me. I find myself on my knees in the sweet dewy grass, crying. I've never been so happy. I can't believe I'm free. For I don't know how long I sob uncontrollably into the grass, smelling it and accidently sifting the soil to the side.

Suddenly I feel myself lifted off the ground into warm and welcoming arms. This only causes me to cry more because nobody has ever touched me in a way not to restrain or inflict pain for the past five years. I press my face into the warm bulk of Sebastian's chest.

"You could be the gardener if you like?" Sebastian suggests.

I have no words, only tears of gratitude as Sebastian seems to stride with me across the sky in his arms towards the sun as he carries me off to my new home.


	2. Baldroy: The Last Man Standing

**Baldroy: The Last Man Standing**

It's amazing how much hatred men can build up against people they're never met if they try hard enough. I know nothing about the people I've been fighting for the last three years but I hate them alright. I hate them so much that I long to wipe the whole lot of them of the face of this pathetic little planet if only so I can go home to America and feel something other than fear for my life and the uselessness of sitting in a shallow hole in the ground waiting to get my head blown off. Most of the men I'm in charge of use prostitutes whenever we're released into the towns nearby the battlefields. I used to but the momentary blast of stale pleasure they bring is so false I've stopped. They'll never fill the void within my stomach that was left when I murdered my peacetime self the first time a bullet I fired made contact with someone else's flesh and killed them. I'm not who I used to be and I'll never be that person again. Nothing's going to change that.

I'm proud of myself for working my way up the ranks and becoming a sergeant, though. I'm only in this position because of my skill. I wasn't born into a rich posh family or anything like that; I'm just good at being in the army. The qualities I have make me the perfect soldier and example to others: detached, strong, able to follow orders. That's why I'm a sergeant now, in on the plans of attack, master, teacher and father to my own platoon of men, the highest position in the ranks. The downside is that I seem to spend all my time telling teenage boys that everything's going to be alright and then watching them charge into battle and die.

Anyway I'm being briefed on what we're to do in our next attack along with all the other officers by the Sergeant Major. He says we're to attack through a weak point in their line which I've been saying for weeks is a trap.

"But sir," I venture, "That's obviously a trap."

I regret saying it as soon as the words are out of my mouth. The Sergeant Major turns to me with venom in his eyes and I almost think he's about to send me for a court martial right there on the spot for contradicting him. I feel I should take it back but I don't. I know I'm right.

"It's not a trap, Sergeant. These people are too stupid to think of such a thing. Do you really believe what you suggest or have you simply lost your nerve?" The Sergeant Major says, giving me a withering glare.

It feels as if he's stabbed me. I know he disapproves of a commoner like me being in a senior position but still the unfounded accusation that I'm a coward makes my eyes sting.

"No, Sir." I spit.

The boys know something's wrong when I join them before the battle.

"Sarge?" Says Jones, staring up at me from beneath the brim of an overlarge uniform hat which falls down over his eyebrows. It was the smallest size we had.

"You're upset." Wilkins joins in, pausing in the meticulous polishing of his bayonet to clench his trembling hands into fists in an unsuccessful attempt to still them.

"Something bad's going to happen isn't it? What's going to happen?" Morris asks, struggling to light a match on the damp-soaked wall of our barricade for the limp cigarette hanging from his grey lips.

I strike one of my own matches on the side of my boot and light Morris's cigarette with it, "Here," I say, sitting down in the middle of the three of them, "Nothing bad's going to happen. We'll be alright. It'll all be just fine. Anyway, we've got three minutes until we're up o let me have a look at your rifles. I don't think I need worry about yours, though, Wilkins."

"Don't leave us, Sarge, will you?" Jones implores me.

"No, no, of course not. I'll be with you men all the way."

It's time. I lead all my men for the charge into the heat of battle. As we reach the so-called 'break' in the line we're ambushed from all sides. Grossly outnumbered. Swords clash, people die. I sprint as fast I can through to the open ground, slashing my sword into people's bodies as I go. I keep looking around me to ensure Jones, Wilkins and Morris are keeping up with me as I promised but the battle is completely chaotic and soon I realise I can't see any of them. As quickly as it began the fight seems to die away. The ground is saturated with blood and mud, the air smells of cordite and my feet catch on corpses. I suddenly realise I'm the only one left from either army. Everyone else is dead.

Out of habit I find a shell hole to sit in and light a cigarette. I take a deep drag and allow the comforting fire to fill my lungs. I can see the bodies of Jones, Wilkins and Morris. Yet more people I've failed. They're huddled together on the lip of the crater I'm in, their limbs tangled and their bodies' slick with too much blood. I can't tell where one of them ends and another starts. Anger fills my body and I want out. I've had enough. I want to scream and shout and hit things at the injustice of it all. Instead I sit in a hole surrounded by the dead and smoke.

I see the body of the Sergeant Major lying nearby and say, "Are you listening to me now, you bastard?" My voice sounds empty and hollow. I feel that way, too. I've seen so much, too much and this is the final straw. There's an immovable lump in my throat and my hands are shaking so badly I can hardly hold my rifle on my knees.

"What a mess." Sighs a posh English voice from behind me.

I jump so much I bite down hard on my cigarette the tobacco explodes onto my tongue.

The adrenaline pumps through my veins and I pull myself out of the shell hole, ready to avenge the deaths of today. Of this whole damn war. I find myself staring down my bayonet at a weedy-looking man in a suit with a severe face and frightening eyes. He smiles.

"So are you friend or foe?" I manage to stammer. My mouth feels like it's stuffed with sawdust.

"Oh neither, I assure you."

This cryptic response unnerves me and my rifle visibly quivers in my hands, the bayonet clattering in its loose port, "Just, just what exactly do you mean by that?"

"You can put that thing down, don't worry. Bullets can't stop me." The man growls a low laugh from the back of his throat.

I drop my weapon without thinking that he might me lying. I can tell he's not but I can also tell he won't hurt me.

"I'm here to offer you a job, actually."

I'm to be a cook in a big house in England with a young Lord and two other servants, not counting Sebastian; the mysterious man and butler, to keep me company. I'll be paid enough to buy all the cigarettesI want and have a bed and meals for free. It's perfect. There's nothing for me in America; I do have friends there, family even, but none of them would recognise me. It's a new dawn, I'm a new person and I'm about to start living a new life. It should feel good to have somebody else in charge for a change.


	3. More to Meyrin

**More to Meyrin**

I never planned to do what I do now; shoot random politicians and other people my bosses want destroyed for money, that is. When I was growing up I was a simple girl with a big family and limited ambition. All I wanted to do was be as good a mother as mine was to me, have as many children as I had siblings and live in the countryside. Of course my mother did not approve of this; I, the youngest of twelve children from poor parents should want to do something worthwhile with my life, make something of myself, and have a profession. If only she could see me now.

These huge ugly eyes I have meant I grew up being called a freak by my peers and having no friends but my brothers and sisters. They also meant I could see immensely far distances, further than the most powerful binoculars but that I was almost blind when looking at things close to. All I have going for me apart from that skill is my looks and my figure. I'm pretty; I know that, provided my fringe falls to the bridge of my nose. When my family were all snatched from me and brutally murdered on the same night I knew there were only two paths I could travel down: the one where my bodily beauty was seized upon and exploited by anyone who could pay for it or the one where my most hideous feature, these giant bug eyes, would be put to good use. I chose the latter.

Now I sit alone but for my thoughts and weapon, a position I find myself in daily, wearing black to blend into the buildings and the shadows which have become my sanctuary, waiting for my opportunity to strike and shatter the skull of a largely innocent person with a twitch of my finger. The list of people I have to kill goes ever on and on. Sometimes I wonder if my bosses pick names out of a hat and insist I end them just so they can see me more often and do whatever they like to my body. I think they like the fact I can't see things up close. It makes me more vulnerable. Anyway I let them do whatever they want to me because they always give me the jobs eventually. The money's good, even if the treatment I receive leaves quite a lot to be desired. I suppose I'm officially a murderer; an assassin but it doesn't feel that way. It just feels like work. Clean, clinical, impersonal. I can normally even run away fast enough so I don't hear the screams.

They're having some sort of garden party below me. I can see every single tiny detail although if one of them looked up I'd be too far away from them to make out. The young politician and his family. People are milling around with glasses of champagne and canapés that the family's staff are offering around on little circular silver trays. Stupid rich pigs. Ignorant and affluent and so very despicable. My bosses are right; I was born to do this. Sometimes I wish I could shoot the whole damn lot of them. He's a popular chap, my mark; people keep swarming round him and obscuring my line of fire.

Eventually all the guests clear off and I'm just lining up the barrel of my gun with the politician's smooth white temple when he drops to his knees and a toddler in a sailor suit runs into his arms. His little boy. The politician stands up and whisks the giggling boy into his arms. I remember my oldest brothers doing that to me; the thrill of momentary weightlessness. I have obviously remembered the sensation too because I feel a tug at my stomach. Or maybe it's sadness. I must be going soft; of course it's not sadness. I've never taken this long to kill a person before. As soon as he puts the kid down I'll blow his brains all over his immaculate lawn.

Now his wife's with him too. They have a baby. Two little lovely children, probably the world to their parents. To see this man with his family makes me think he'd be just as happy if he wasn't as rich as he was and lived in a slum like I had as a girl as long as he had his family. I'm definitely going soft and letting my own emotions cloud my thoughts. I shift the gun higher on my shoulder and take aim. If that little boy gets in the way then so be it. It'll save me killing him when he'd older and taken over his father's job.

"You have incredible eyes." Say a sleek voice from behind me.

I gasp and whirl round, squinting to make out the figure that towers above me in my crouched position. I manage to make out a silver watch chain, probably worth quite a lot and a sharp pale face. The rest is dissolved in darkness.

"I'd like to offer you a position."

Position, what sort of position? Better than what I have now?

"Room and board would be included, of course."

What does this idiot think he's playing at? He's probably from a rival firm and trying to distract me while one his men does the job of killing the politician. I raise my gun and to shut him up but he's disappeared.

"No experience necessary." He's crouched directly behind me and has the gun out of my hands before I've finished jumping from the initial shock of his quick movements. Nobody could have moved that quickly. I'm not even sure if this man's human, "I'll teach you everything you'll need to know if you'll agree."

What do I have to lose?


End file.
